Once We Were
by nahashnesher
Summary: The months since the Exalted Council and the dissolution of the Inquisition have rolled into years, and the former Inquisitor finds a new role.
1. A garden of hopes and fears

I am woken by the sun flickering in through the open windows. I must have forgotten to close them when I collapsed into my bed. The curtains are waving in a strong breeze that lets fresh morning into the dusty darkness. I haul myself up and he wooden legs of the old, folding camp cot creak and complain as I stand and stagger over to the window. The light stings my aching eyes. I really shouldn't read by lamplight as much as I do. I rub them blearily as I reach out to open the curtain. There is a moment of confusion as my hand passes right through the place where the curtain should be. Then I remember that it is my hand that 'should' be there, and is not.

The sun is already rising over the twin domes of the university's chantry, silhouetting 'Andraste's bosom' (as the students refer to it) dramatically against the skyline. I can hear the quiet music of the fountains in the courtyard below playing in concert with the birdsong choirs perched on the roofs and statues. There are already a few students making their way across the courtyard and underneath the loggia, or else sitting in the new sunlight beside the fountains. Some, I suspect, have not slept during the night. For a few, peaceful moments, I am given the leisure of watching the sunlit scene from my balcony. I can still remember the first time that I arrived in this courtyard as a boy of sixteen, desperate to belong. There are countless echoes and fragments from my time here; thoughts and memories that are still coloured with the emotions I once had, but which seem, now, to belong to another person.

My thoughts are interrupted by an opening door behind me. I turn to see a balding man with a young face, pinched in concentration as he balances a bundle of scrolls in his arms and walks across the room. He frowns and peers at my camp cot, obviously perplexed to see it. Then, finally, he notices me watching him from the balcony. His surprised yelp sends his scrolls tumbling to the floor.

"Maker!" he gasps. Then, looking more closely, "It's you! You're here? I mean, obviously you are… You startled me… umm… Your Worship."

I grin, "Obviously I did."

He blinks at me as if at a loss on how to behave. Then he seems to remember something with a start. "I… I apologise for barging in, My Lord."

I wave my hand at him. "Oh, it's my fault, Thibaut. I'm the one who snuck in during the night and set up camp to lurk here in the dark and ambush you."

There is a moment while Thibaut's face remains frozen in neutral as he tries to decide whether I am joking. Then he gives me a small, polite laugh. "Well, it is _**your**_ office, Chancellor."

"I suppose it is." I reply. If the truth were told I must look a sight, standing here with the tails of my crumpled shirt hanging out over my half-buttoned breeches. I rub my chin, feeling the young beard growing in, still itching and unfamiliar. Thibaut smiles awkwardly and bends down to pick up his scrolls. I go over to help him.

"I… ahh… apologise. For all of the… clutter, your Worship." Thibaut is the personal secretary to the Chancellor of the University of Orlais. Which, officially at least, makes him my secretary. In truth he answers to the vice-chancellor. When I was offered the position it was clearly thought that it would be an honourary appointment, garnering prestige for myself, influence and donations for the university. As such, the chancellor's office has been turned into an overspill filing space and a treasury for some of the more lavish gifts the university has received. There are new shelves bisecting the room, stacked with books, scrolls and locked chests. I recognise one or two artefacts that had once been in Skyhold's vaults among those shelves. I don't blame the vice-chancellor for the creative use of space, though it does occur to me to check that the wealth stored here really had been entered into the university's inventory and accounts. It would be all too easy for things to disappear into private collections.

"No need for an apology, Thibaut, and please don't call me that. I am not anyone's 'Worship' any more."

"Yes, my lord." he replies.

In fact, there is more than enough room left in the office to accommodate me comfortably. My saddlebags are hung over the back of a chair, and contain all the things that I need from day to day. The weatherbeaten bags have been with me halfway across Thedas and back again more than once. Their arrangement and packing are more of a reflex after all these years, a comforting and familiar daily ritual that requires no conscious thought. The same could be said for the camp cot and bedroll. I tuck my shirt into my breeches and sit down on it to pull my boots on.

As I do, Thibaut shuffles over to the racks of scrolls and deposits his consignment. I watch him as he casts his eye over the racks hesitantly, noticing the spaces where some are missing. Finally, he turns to look at my desk. On it sit three piles of unrolled papers, each weighed down by a heavy book. "I beg your pardon, My lord, but are those…?"

"The research grant proposals?" I interrupt. "Yes they are."

"Oh. I see… It's just that the vice-chancellor has already reviewed them."

"I noticed that, and most stringently. It's seems that the vice-chancellor is a little shy of _spending_ the funds that the Herald's Foundation brings in. Don't worry, Thibaut. You and I will remind her that her caution is unnecessary. The money is intended for the university and it should be spent on furthering the knowledge and enlightenment of Thedas, down to the last sous." Thibaut replies with a weak smile beneath fretful eyes.

I reach into my saddlebags to find the chancellor's seal. Walking to the desk, I search the drawers until I find a stick of wax. "This one is particularly urgent, though. I want you to take this to the treasury immediately." I take a candle to melt the wax onto a page filled with neat writing. Thibaut moves closer to peer over my shoulder. I can feel him tense behind me. "My lord, the vice-chancellor…"

"You can inform her right after you have taken this to the treasury and released the funds." I interrupt, smiling in satisfaction as the thick red wax blossoms out from the edges of the seal. My seal. It takes a moment for it to harden. Then I push it towards Thibaut. "You are to tell her that the chancellor is insistant."

Thibaut looks stricken. "Y… yes, my lord."

"Let me hear you say it. Pretend I am the vice-chancellor."

He hesitates "The.. um… chancellor is insistent, my lord… I mean, ma'am."

"You can do better than that, Thibaut. Come on. _Emphasis_."

"The _chancellor_ insisted, ma'am."

I grin and slap him on his shoulder. "Good man!" Thibaut half-smiles as I hand him the scroll. "Oh! Could you do me one or two favours before you go?" I continue, lowering myself into my seat at the chancellor's desk.

"Yes, my lord?"

"First, I would like a basin of water to wash in and some breakfast if you can manage it. Then I want to review the scholarship grants if you can find the records? After that I will need to know the whereabouts of a couple of people."

"I will do what I can, Chancellor."

It is the middle of the afternoon when I reach the top of the staircase, a little alarmed by how deeply I have to breath after the climb. Age, perhaps? More likely it is the lack of exercise. It should not be an excuse, but there is little call for a one-armed man to be running around in heavy armour. I knock on the door. There is a pause and a slightly confused "Come in?" from the other side. Within I find a man with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, finely chiseled features and dark hair greying at the temples. "Enchanter." I greet him.

Rhys rises from his desk. He is wearing the long gown of a professor rather than a mage's robes, though the badge of the College of Enchanters adorns his belt and tunic. "Inquisitor!"

I roll my eyes. "How many years does it have to be before people stop calling me that?"

"I'd give it a decade or two," Rhys replies with a smile, "and if you tell me that you won't be disappointed when they do stop I shall call you a liar."

"Tsk. You can't even leave an old man his vanity. That's gratitude for you, when I even brought brandy." I pull the bottle from my satchel.

"Antivan." Rhys nods in approval, "Pour me enough of that and I'll call you whatever you like."

"You have yourself a bargain, Enchanter. You do the honours." I hand him the bottle because, frankly, pulling a cork out with my teeth only seems to work when I am extremely drunk.

We sit and enjoy the first sips of our brandy in companionable silence as I look out of his window. "They have given you a fine view of the city."

"What you mean is that they have put me in the highest tower to keep me out of the way."

I look around. The round office is spacious, taking up the entire storey of a circular tower. It faces out towards the city, away from the courtyard which is the beating heart of the university. "Is it that bad?"

He sighs and leans back in his chair. "At the very least there aren't heavily armed knights to make me stay up here. No matter how much others might prefer that I did."

The back of my neck flushes hot, the way that it always does to herald sudden guilt. "I appreciate that you took the post here. If you haven't been made welcome…"

He shakes his head and waves his hand to dismiss my point. "No, no. It isn't all bad. I enjoy the teaching, even though it's mostly the basics every apprentice knows. Most of the students are amazed to hear even that. To some I am an exotic novelty. Others cross the quads when they see me coming."

"A mage is fire made flesh and a demon asleep." I say, and Rhys looks at me with a frown. I continue, "These people have been taught that all their lives. That's why I asked the College of Enchanters to send a representative. The university should be a place for unlearning convenient platitudes like that."

Rhys takes a deep drink from his glass and makes a non-committal noise. "That's a fine sentiment, but I see as many retreating back into platitudes like that as there are unlearning them. I have heard talk from some of hiring templars 'just incase'."

That is news to me, and something to be snuffed out quickly. "Ex-templars." I add, "The order doesn't exist any more."

"Hmmm… and how long will that last? The College has heard rumours that Madame de Fer's Circle is recruiting 'ex-templars'."

We came around to that sooner than I had expected. Vivienne and the mages who had split from the college are the elephant in every room when I meet mages these days. Will I condemn her? Will I support her? As long as the music plays, we dance.

"I very much doubt that we can give the name 'templar' to those who sign up to be tame bodyguards at the beck and call of Vivienne's loyalists. Let them call themselves that if they wish, Rhys. The Nevarran Accord is dust. The order you knew is not coming back."

Rhys took a long swig from his glass. "Not under this Divine, perhaps, but what about the next, and the one after that?

' _If any of us live long enough to see the next_.' Is the answer which occurs to me. I keep it to myself. Rhys looks out of his window and his eyes fix on the horizon, where the White Spire gleams above the city. It must be strange for him to look at it every day, an unavoidable memorial of the past. "I also hear that Madame de Fer has petitioned the Divine to grant the White Spire to the _Circle_." His eyes slant over to me as he chews on that last word. I choose that moment to take a long drink. "So I've heard." I reply, carefully.

"Will she grant it?"

"How should I know?"

Rhys tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. Even I don't believe that, and he does deserve better. I sigh. "If I were the Divine… I have always looked good in extravagant hats. It has to be said… I would see this petition as an opportunity."

"An opportunity?"

"Both Vivienne and the Most Holy are very well aware that the schismatics that oppose Leliana are desperate to see this new Circle throw in their lot with them. This petition shows everyone, very publicly, that Vivienne wants none of that."

Rhys frowns, "For a price."

I shrug. "If the price is the White Spire then we should count it a bargain. Think of the implications. If the Circle gains ownership of the White Spire they gain prestige, yes, but they tie their legitimacy to Divine Victoria. That prevents the schism from gaining strength. This is an olive branch; a chance for the Circle, the College and the Divine to work together instead of flying apart."

Rhys' jaw tightens "You know that they are going to begin harrowings again? How long before they are making failed apprentices tranquil?" his voice slowly rises as he speaks.

"We will be watching to ensure that they do not use the rite of tranquility."

"That is no guarantee and you know it!"

"What is it you want us to do, Rhys?" my frustration bursts out into words before I can rein it in. "Do you want us to round up the loyalists and march them back to your College? They left of their own accord. They chose. Now they are choosing their own rules for themselves. Wasn't that what you fought a war for?"

We are left in a quiet that is no longer quite so companionable. I stare into the warm, dark amber liquid in my glass as if I can find the answers there. As the months since the dissolution of the Inquisition have stretched into years Rhys has become my guide on matters concerning spirits, the Fade and the Veil. There is a well-thumbed copy of his ' _Denizens of the Fade'_ in my saddlebags. In that time he has become a friend as well as an advisor. So I cannot fault him for looking at Vivienne's Circle and her 'templars' and seeing the spectre of his old prison. I take the bottle and pour him another glass as a peace offering. He makes eye contact with me again and his expression softens. "You're right." He says. "They left by their own choice, but most mages come into their power when they are children. They are usually confused and frightened. Are we going to expect them to make a choice too? Will they even get one?"

Another insoluble question. My temples throb.

"You know that my mother is fond of telling us, at length, about how horrified she was when she first saw my father's house after they married. 'I did not graduate with the highest honours from Markham University to live in a draughty hall full of morbid hunting trophies!'" I mimic her voice. It makes me smile. "But by the time I was born we had the finest library and landscaped gardens in Ostwick."

"Are you going somewhere with this, Trevelyan?"

"Proverbs, Enchanter. I'm going to proverbs. The best ones aren't platitudes. Mother always said that a gardener's work is never done. She said that 'only a fool thinks they can make a garden of a wilderness in one season. It takes time, sweat and heartbreak, but only a greater fool never starts. You get your hands dirty and you see what grows, and you always remember that there's none of it that won't go wild or rotten with neglect.' That's why I'm not Inquisitor any more. That's also why I won't condemn Vivienne's Circle as the College seems so keen for me to do. They aren't just a weed that I can pull up. It would just grow back. But if we embrace it, then we can shape it, and they could be a part of the garden."

Rhys looks at me incredulously.

"I don't have all of the answers." I press on, "Nobody does. We are all making this up as we go along, just like we always have been. That's why I think this bargain is so important. At the very least we need a way for the College and the Circle to _talk_ to one another. Just because you are rivals does not mean that you must be enemies."

"Thedas is a very big garden ' _Inquisitor'_." Rhys replies, not unkindly.

I pour myself another drink; a big one. "Then we are going to need a lot of gardeners, aren't we?"

"That brings me to the reason for my visit." I continue, "The University is putting together a research expedition and I would like our College of Enchanters representative to join it. You had something of reputation as a field researcher before the war, I hear, and this would be in your area of expertise. If you aren't too comfortable up here in your tower, that is."

Rhys doesn't say anything for a moment. He just sits back and looks at me thoughtfully, which is what tells me he is interested. "Go on." he says after a while.

"Stone-Bear Hold, in the Frostback Basin. I'd like you to research the Avvar augurs, their relationship with spirits; their gods, as they call them. Especially the way that they train their apprentices."

Rhys narrows his eyes and smirks. Now I am certain that he is interested. "Isn't that rather a dangerous place… and subject, frankly?"

"Not so dangerous a place as it once was, and the view of Cloudcap Lake is worth the journey all on its own. Most of the budget is being spent on security. I know an excellent mercenary company with a reputation for doing unconventional jobs. Just don't talk to their captain too much about spirits and you'll get along famously."

"That deals with the hazards of the place, but what about the subject? How do you imagine the Circle will react when they find out that the College has people dabbling in 'primitive, irresponsible spirit worship' and 'abominations'?"

"That's why it has to be you. No-one else is as qualified. You know the dangers, and you know the possibilities. You also know why this could be so important. I wouldn't be asking if it weren't."

He pauses again, his thumb running along the edge of his beard. "Do the Seekers know what you are asking me to do?"

"I have no secrets from the Seekers."

"And they approve?"

"They agree that it is necessary."

After a long pause he knocks back his brandy and sets the glass down. "Alright ' _Inquisitor'_ , I'm in."

I grin and toast his good health. Then I pour him another drink.


	2. Letters

_I write letters._

 _I write letters to old friends and old enemies. I write letters to family and to those who know me only as a name and tale. I write letters to empresses and magisters and to farmers and thieves. I write open letters and private letters. I write letters on matters weighty and matters trivial. Sometimes it is hard to know which are which._

 _Most of all I write letters to you. Sometimes, there is poetry. At times even some grace and finesse. Yet even when I have no words to say what is in my heart, I write. Even when I have no ink and no paper I am writing. For everything that happens to me, no matter how small and unimportant, is a line in a letter that I might write to you. It is a way to share that which we must experience apart; a way to reclaim memories of moments we might have had._ _The days lengthen, and still we are apart._

 _At times it is difficult not to resent the duty that means it must be so. Yet I could not claim to love you if I did not love your duty. Nor could I claim to be a man worthy of you if I did not love my own. So take these letters from me, my love. They are my life, and they will be, always and forever, yours._

* * *

The thin pale line of a dawn soon to come was tinting the skyline when I finally admitted to myself that I would not get any sleep. Fine resolutions made in moments of foresight, such as facing an important day well rested, are always left to a future self to fulfil. I have always found that man a little untrustworthy. The basket by my desk is filled with screwed up sheets of paper. Despite the waste I have a small pile of letters that I can deem worthy of being delivered to their recipients. Tasks always take at least twice as long once the sun has gone down. The mind wanders like a wayward steed, its rider tired and powerless to command it. The last letter, the longest, consumed the greatest portion of my night and my lamp oil. Completing it left me poured out and empty; relieved; able to to rest but unable to sleep. I have been been staring at my last sheet of paper for what must have been more than an hour, just watching my hand scratch out sketch after sketch of woman's face with short hair and a scar down her left cheek. None of them are truly her, no matter how many times I try.

Now morning is almost upon me, and sleep will not come in time to do me any good. It is futile to shut the stable door after the horse has bolted. So I go down to the stables. Brandel, the chestnut courser who has been my stalwart companion ever since I first put him through his paces on Dennet's farm, had not bolted. Brandel never bolted. So I throw on one of the stableman's coats and saddle him up. Then we ride out beyond the university gates. The pre-dawn air is crisp enough to chase away my weariness, and the motions between Brandel and I so natural that I can let my conscious mind rest. We pass the city gates and are perhaps two miles along the imperial highway before I notice the sun climbing the sky.

We need a brisker pace, but we reach the university in time. The simple peace of the ride is blown away in moments by the frantic bustle in the stables. Yet it still feels strangely serene to glide between the stable hands rushing to and fro. I carefully untack Brandel and take some time to brush him down and put out some fresh hay for him.

"You there!" someone shouts. Gradually it dawns on me that they are speaking to me. By the stable doors a dwarven lady with a long brown coat and short, black, braided hair is pointing at me. In the other hand she is firmly gripping a coiled bullwhip. "Have you got dung in your ears?" she barks, "We aren't taking that one, you sodding nughumper! That's the bloody chancellor's horse. Maker! You wouldn't last a day on my wagons…" she stomps over and hands me the reins of a big piebald dray. "Here. Walk this one around and yoke it to the big unsprung cart. That's a nice, simple job. Think you can do that right?"

I fight down the urge to smile. "Yes ma'am." I reply and take the reins. Leading the dray away I can hear the wagonmaster growling under her breath. "Sodding Orlesians. If they didn't keep changing their plans I could have brought enough bronto for the job."

The courtyard is even busier. Gone are the usual wandering students, replaced by a dozen large wagons, most of them hitched to hulking, horned bronto. Gaggles of people mill around them. They are supervising the loading of crates, boxes and bags, or arguing about the loading. A few are even doing some loading. The piebald dray, a beast named Sabina if I am not mistaken, lets it all wash over her and good naturedly allows me to fix her to the yoke of a wagon behind a team of three other horses. The horses are faster than the bronto, but the stamina of the big beasts meant that it would be them who would be stopping to wait for the tired horses over long distances. I can understand why the wagonmaster is unhappy.

"I suppose you aren't completely useless." she says, appearing behind as though summoned by my thoughts. "Thank you ma'am." I reply.

"How ya' doin', Boss?" says another voice, one that rumbles like a gently rolling boulder. The wagonmaster clicks her tongue. "We'll do. We can switch the horses for proper draught animals when we reach Jader."

"That's great, but I was talking to him." The big horned man grins at me a winks with his one eye. "New job, Boss?" he asks.

"I'm in disguise. How am I doing?"

The Iron Bull chuckles, "Don't give up your day job. The arm is a dead giveaway. Even if you weren't famous most stable hands would bother to wear their prosthetic when they were working. The beard is a nice touch, though. Changes the whole shape of your face. You going to pretend to be a grey warden next?"

"I'm saving that for when I'm really desperate." I reply.

The wagonmaster looks from one of us to the other and her brow knits together like two tectonic plates colliding. Then she looks at the empty sleeve flapping where my left arm should be and she knows me. I didn't think that it was possible for her to look more annoyed. "You're him!" That definitely sounds like an accusation. Does that make me paranoid?

"Guilty as charged. I also respond to 'You' or 'Sodding Nughumper'."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"You never asked. Besides, if we are saying goodbye to Sabine here I'd like to do it myself." I pat her side. I have always hated selling horses. I extend my hand to the wagonmaster. "You must be Bratha Feriden. It is a pleasure to meet you." Bratha glares at my hand before slowly taking it in a strong grip and shaking it firmly. "You've added two more wagons to the train?" I observe.

"Last minute changes." she grunts and spits in reply. "Bad start. I thought this was your show?"

I shrug. "I'm just the backer, but I do have one request. I want you to make sure that Sabine and her friends go to good homes in Jader." I take out my notebook and kohl stick and scratch out a name on a page, tearing it out for her. "Talk to this merchant in the city and tell them I sent you. He'll give you a fair deal."

Bratha takes the paper and nods. "I'll do that." Then she spots something across the courtyard that arouses her scowl again. "Not like that!" she yells, then nods to me "Please excuse me, Inquisitor." then she strides off like a storm before I can correct her.

"A taskmaster. Good choice." Bull comments.

"She comes highly recommended. It's good to see you again, Bull." I hold out my hand and he takes my whole forearm in his grip and pulls me in for a bear hug that I can only return in half measure. "Good to see you too, Boss. Come on. There's some people eager to see you." He leads me over to a wagon. The Chargers are sitting in the back, playing wicked grace on a barrell top. We all greet each other, they pour me a drink a deal me in. We talk about old times and ignore the strange looks we get from people who probably think they are watching a stable hand gambling with mercenaries instead of working. The Chargers make a few good natured jokes about my coat or my beard, and share stories about some of their new scars.

"You're keeping busy in the Dales, I hear." I comment.

"Yeah." Krem replies, "There's plenty of work over there at the moment."

"Is it bad?" It has been years since I saw the Dales. Am I actually nostalgic about it? It seems that most of my memories of the place are of war and death.

Bull shrugs, "Not so bad as it could be." he says, but his grin fades a little. He should know exactly what 'bad' can mean. Seheron isn't a comforting comparison to be making. "There are some groups making trouble that are proving harder to squash than we thought," he continues, "but they are disorganised, and the Marquise makes sure that they stay that way. Briala isn't quite a Ben Hasserath, but she's damn close." the grin comes back. "Don't worry, Boss. It's in good hands."

Not my hands. Hand. Not any more. That horse has bolted, and I am the one who let it out. "I'm not your boss any more, Bull." I remind him.

His one eye twinkles as he shrugs his mountainous shoulders. "Hey, aren't I taking your coin again? That makes you the boss, Boss."

I shake my head. "Not me. I spend my days sitting behind desks now. Come with me and I'll introduce you to the real boss."

We find Colette directing a pair of carters and three students as they lift a large, folded tripod onto a wagon. "How are things proceeding, Professor?" I ask.

"Oh. Your Worship… I mean, my Lord Chancellor." she greets me. She is wearing a long coat and a feathered hat that marks her as a professor. "We are a little delayed, but we are almost ready to depart. We have several hours before high tide and the extra supplies will be worth it."

"The extra wagons?"

"Yes, my Lord. The College of Enchanters sent us extra funding along with their equipment, so I quickly bought up some more grain, winter clothes and herbs while I still could."

I nudge The Iron Bull. "This is Colette. She's the Boss. Colette, this is the Iron Bull."

Bull extends a massive hand. "Hey I remember you. Didn't we find you in that swamp, fighting your way alone through giant spiders and Avvar, looking for some 'Vint ruin?"

Colette shakes his hand back. "Yes. That's me."

"I like your style. Good to meet you, Boss."

"The Iron Bull and the Chargers will keep you safe," I am aware that I have given Colette this talk at least three times before. It doesn't stop me from continuing. "...but don't take any unnecessary risks. Use the guides from Stone Bear Hold and for the Maker's sake make sure your research assistants don't wander."

"Like I did?" she asks.

"Exactly." I look over at the young men and women, children really, joking and laughing in the wagon.

"Don't worry, Boss. I know just what to do." Bull nods towards a handsome young man with a rake of dark hair and a whiff of a moustache telling a story to the others. "See that one? He's the reckless one that thinks nothing can touch him, and makes the others think the same. I'll make sure that he gets gets into just enough trouble to learn that there is plenty out there that can touch him."

I fix him with a look. "They all have to come back, Bull."

"They will."

"In one piece."

"You got it."

"We all know the risks, my lord. We won't let you down." Colette says in great earnestness, trying to reassure me. It only makes me worry more. I cannot help but dwell upon how young she looks. The professor's coat does not hide her slight frame, though it is well cut and emphasises her upright posture. Her steady gaze gives her an air of confidence. You made sure she knew exactly what she is walking into, I tell myself. Yet I add; you also encouraged her. You wanted her to accept. Now you will not be there to help; could not, even if you were. I can feel the fingers of my left hand flexing where there is only air.

"Besides," Colette adds, "everyone will feel a lot safer to have the Lady Seeker with us."

I step back on my heel as if she has struck me. "The… what?"

Colette looks confused, "I thought that you had arranged it, my lord. She was asking for you. I told her that you might be in your office."

My head is up and I am scanning the courtyard, looking for her. It was not the plan for her to be here. There is so much for her to attend to elsewhere. Yet plans change. My heart is beating faster and I wind my way through the wagons and into the building. I take the stairway two or three steps at a time, weaving between the throngs of students. At the top of the landing I see her. She is wearing the black armour. Her posture is upright, her movements fluid, graceful, deliberate, disciplined. Her hair is dark. She turns and raises her hand in greeting. Her smile is bright with genuine delight. It is the greeting that I have always had in my imagination, just below every thought, since I parted from her. It is a perfect moment.

It is not her.

Rhys steps into my view and approaches Evangeline slowly while the whirl of activity seems to orbit them, unable to touch them in their reunion. I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding and lean on the bannister beside me as I watch them embrace. I can only watch for a moment as they look into one another's eyes and talk in excited bursts between smiles that spring back onto their faces as though it was their natural state. Then I look away, feeling like an intruder, despite the crowds. I shake my head and laugh to myself at my own foolishness.

A woman's voice hails me. "Inquisitor?" I keep looking down the grand staircase and pretend that I have not heard. "Inquisitor?" she calls again.

"I am afraid the Inquisitor is no longer available, but we do have one chancellor. Well, most of one, anyway." I turn to Evangeline and put my smile back on to greet her with a handshake. "It's good to see you. I believe you were making your way to my office?" I gesture along the landing and they both follow on alongside me. It gives me a moment to shake my thoughts back to the present. "It's been some time. I take it that your training is complete?"

Evangeline shrugs, "I don't think that it ever will be, but I have learned much." Her record, both with the templars and in the Inquisition, amply demonstrates that Evangeline de Brassard needs no further training. Yet I, along with a few others, knew that she was unique in ways that meant the usual Seeker initiation would never be possible for her. The abilities of all Seekers were remarkable, but Evangeline would be breaking new ground for them. "I wasn't expecting you." I say as I open my office door and take off the stableman's coat, throwing it over my camp cot in the corner. The room is much as it was on my first night here, though Thibaut has arranged for it to be dusted and basin of fresh water to be provided every morning.

"Seeker Pentaghast made it clear to me how dangerous and important your expedition could be. She felt that I was uniquely qualified to assist."

I smile. I had suggested as much to Cassandra months ago, and she had been resistant. In fact, it had taken time and persuasion to convince her that Evangeline was suitable for the Seekers at all. In the end her skills, experiences and integrity made her too much of an asset to exclude from an already limited pool of candidates and the two women had developed a deep mutual respect. Evangeline de Brassard only lived due to circumstances that would have made her a walking affront to Cassandra's beliefs only a few years ago. Many things, not least the Lord Seeker's tome, had shaken and changed those beliefs. Nevertheless, sending Seeker de Brassard on this of all missions was a big step.

As I watch Evangeline and Rhys standing together in my doorway I cannot help but smile and wonder whether Cassandra had allowed considerations beyond the merely practical influence her decision. I had long felt guilty for my part in finding roles for them so far apart from one another. "I am glad." Then I add a little awkwardly, "How are things with the Seekers?"

"There are too few of us and too many matters which require our attention, as always." She hesitates for a moment and the adds, "We lost contact with two Seekers that we sent to investigate strange rumours on the fringes of the Tirashan Forest. When I left Seeker Pentaghast was preparing to set out to search for them."

Something cold grips my stomach. I lean back on my desk. "Have you had any word?" I say, slowly and carefully.

"Not yet, my lord, but it is too soon to expect anything. I have been on the road for days."

It takes some concentration to listen to her. She approaches and meets my eyes with a kindly smile. "She asked that I give you these." she holds out a bundle of neatly folded letters, all bearing a wax seal, and tied together in a red ribbon. I take them from her. A moment ago a delivery such as this would have given me a giddy, childish excitement. Even still, they make me smile. "Thank you." I reply, simply.

"It is nothing." Evangeline glances over her shoulder at Rhys. "There is much to do. Perhaps we should leave you."

I nod absently. Then I remember my manners and stand up straight to give her a small bow. "I am truly glad that you have come, Seeker, and not only for the sake of this poor fool over here." I wink at Rhys, "It will allow me to rest more easily while the expedition is away."

Rhys steps over and takes my hand. "I will expect another bottle of Antivan brandy when I get back."

"My word on it."

"Look after that garden of yours, Inquisitor."

"I'll do my best."

With that they leave me with my letters, and for a long time I simply sit looking at them. The Tirashan. The name conjures images of twisted old trees so thick that they allow no light to touch the forest floor. Orlais has numerous folktales about the Tirashan, and if our information is to be believed there is _something_ stirring there. I have walked in such places many times. In the Arbor Wilds, further than any had gone for ages long past. I was not afraid then, because I was with her. Now I am safe in Val Royeaux while Cassandra walks in the Tirashan and I am so terrified that I can barely breathe.

I go to the window and look down at the wagons as they begin to leave. You are a fine one for sending others into harm's way, Trevelyan, but see how it feels when it is someone you care for; that you need. See how it feels when you are the one left behind. The Iron Bull, the Chargers, Rhys, Evangeline, they have all faced worse. So, too, has Colette. Yet it is her that I fear for the most. She knows what she risks with this expedition, and it is not merely giant spiders and hostile Avvar. There are many that would seize upon any mistake or mishap to disgrace the university's first elven professor. They long to click their tongues and say 'I told you so. See what happens when you raise a knife-ear above their station?' The knives are sharpened and waiting. Now I have entrusted her with the riskiest and most controversial of projects. It will make her or it will break her, perhaps both. She knows that as well as I. She drank willingly from that cup. Yet it was I that filled it for her.

The risks are great, but the rewards greater. That is what I tell myself. _We must get our hands dirty and see what grows_. I told myself that when I led the Inquisition to the Frostback Basin. Yet when I see those young women and men laughing as their wagon pulls away I remember the sight of my soldiers hacked apart and bleeding to death in the mud beside the Varsdotten River. Men and women who were veterans of Adamant and the Arbor Wilds, who had gone through hell and lived to see Corypheus defeated, only for the Inquisitor to lead them on a damn fool errand and get them killed further from home than they ever dreamed they would be. I got my hands dirty, alright.

" _You were people, and you deserved better. Like all the rest I have used in one hopeless battle after another."_ There is a chill breeze as I repeat the words to myself. Or perhaps it is my imagination.

I go to my cot and reach underneath. There is a roll of canvas there, four and a half feet in length. I unroll it, and inside is a greatsword, still gleaming. Silverite does not tarnish. I take the grip in my hand and lift it, letting the light catch on the edge. The hilt is volcanic aurum, still vibrating softly to the rhythm of the Fade. The guard is delicately curved and the dragon-slaying rune there glitters green in the sunlight. The blade itself is long, straight and tapered. It is strong without being brittle, flexible enough that it never jars. It is perfectly weighted and balanced. There are fluid ripples in the metal where it has been folded and twisted over and over again. It is the work of two master craftsmen from the forges of Skyhold, which are now silent once again. I can remember the way this blade sang in my hands when I wielded it. I can remember when it first came to me. I knew its name straight away and had that name engraved on the blade. I say it aloud, "Seeker."

The phantom fingers of my left hand twitch. I gave up swordsmanship once before, when I was merely myself and not the Inquisitor or the Herald. I told myself that I never wanted to wield a sword to earnestly seek blood ever again. I had meant it. I had thought that I meant it when I did so again after the Exalted Council, when I was again merely myself. I lift Seeker with my right hand at the guard and my left arm moves naturally to place the other hand near the pommel. Never is a small word that can swallow you whole.

The courtyard below is empty and eerily quiet when I lay the sword aside and open the first letter. The handwriting inside is neat and flowing with sharp angles. The sight of it makes me smile. I take a moment to run my finger along a line to feel its contours. Then I roll up the stableman's coat, sit back on my cot, and begin to read.


End file.
